


The House That Hate Built

by aactionjohnny



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-02 07:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16300784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: It's complicated. He sleeps down the hall and they sleep in the same bed. He dreams of them and they dream of him, even if they'll never say it aloud.





	1. Milk and Sugar

 

It looks a little more romantic through their new curtains. A sun-blocking burgundy, though still the light filters in, corners of the windows uncovered by the soft linen. She awakes in her usual discomfort, the ever-present pain in her lower back stinging as she turns onto her side. The sight is familiar, his chest rises and falls with that gentle snore. It’s cute the way his nose twitches on the inhale. And it’s romantic, and he’s dyed burgundy. And she’s stiff, and he’ll be stiff when he wakes. They’re getting old, aren’t they? She laments the slow loss of her youth. How the corners of her eyes grow wrinkles, how her calves seem ever-expanding. 

But he still worships every part of her still-soft skin. And she still worships his daunting majesty, his strong features, his devastating love. He’s always feisty in the mornings, and so is she. Biting her lip, ignoring the ache in her joints, she swings one long leg over him, straddling his sleeping form with a low, girlish giggle.

He’s bare. Always sleeps in the nude no matter how chilly the room is. Even when they first moved in, even when the heat barely worked. He’s a man of principle. She’s always loved that about him.

Among other things.

She grins wide as she palms at the curves in their bedsheets, noting how utterly hard he is. Every morning, and so often she takes advantage of it. Waking him before their alarm can ring. With her hands, with her mouth. No matter the years that pass, she knows her lips will still maintain their enticing pout.

“Rise and shine, sweet pea…” she mumbles, pulling down the sheets, eager to see him. She places a soft kiss upon his taut, warm skin, and her toes curl at the shiver that goes through him. Her plans always work.

“Hhoo—“ he coos, his long fingers braiding through her hair, all mussed from sleep. “Good  _ morning. _ ” Always exasperated, always impressed, as if each time is the first time. It warms her, makes her chest feel that pleasant emptiness that can only be filled by his adoration. 

“It’s important to always have a big breakfast…” she says, her parted lips teasing, breathing on him like a taunt. His gentle laugh makes her ache at the meeting of her thighs. Still, after all this time, she saves that feeling for him. For him,  _ only for him _ , she repeats it in her head so often. As if she has to convince herself. She swallows her denial as she swallows him whole. No one else, no one else. Sure, she’s messed around. It’s what villains do. But only for him does she bring her best. Only for him does she dote and kiss and adore. 

Only for him does she gulp and grin. She’s come to love the taste, not even sure if it’s as good as she says. It’s his seed, his gift, and so she relishes in it each and every time.

“Thaaat’s my girl…” he says, through his shuddering _. My girl.  _ She loves it when he says that. It makes her feel all young and beautiful. As pristine as when they met. Fresh to his eyes and hands.

She climbs him and they settle, dozing in and out for an hour or so. She’s off the clock until noon. A lunch meeting with Dr. Z, the old coot. He only serves to remind her of her own inexperience.  _ And _ her approaching age. She hates that. Hates that she gives a rat’s ass about her looks, her appeal. She’s been taught it matters by years of men and their wagging fingers. If she’s not the image of villainous beauty, she’s nothing. Forget her intellect, her doctorate, her skill, her malice and manipulation. She wears her worth in a tight dress and bare thighs.

It’s not as though she doesn’t enjoy it, how she dresses. She only wishes people knew it was for  _ her. _ Her, and sometimes her husband. Only him, only him.

He stays in bed, tired still from last night’s training. They’ve got a new army to build, new henchmen to break in. With one last proud glance at his long, idle limbs, she slips on her robe and leaves their bedroom.

 

Downstairs the smell of coffee permeates even the thick, old walls, and she smiles as she breathes it in. Gary, always up at dawn, and his dark roast. He drinks it black. A shame, because she can’t make it for him. No sugar to add, no milk. She offers him nothing but her gratitude at the breakfast he makes.

Nothing but that and the sight of her in her lavender terrycloth and her bedhead. She knows how he used to pine, despises herself for drinking that in. He’s too sweet for her conniving.

“Morning, ma’am,” he says, sparing her a quick look as he flips an egg on the pan.

“Gary, please,” she says, voice cracking in her sleepiness. “I’m not your boss anymore, remember?”

“I mean...technically you’re more my boss than you ever were…” His shoulders tense a little at the satisfying sizzle of the eggs in the hot butter.

“Gary, you sleep in a room down the hall from me. I know your blood type,” she begins to count on her fingers, “your social security number, _ and  _ your top five Vin Diesel movies, which is apparently a thing men think about.”

“Triple X is underrated…”

“Whatever. It’s  _ Sheila. _ Or I’ll have Watch and Ward come by to inspect your quarters.” Lots of pornography, she imagines. Not that they’d report him. They’d just steal it.

She eases, hearing his tickled laugh, and smiles when he places a plate before her. Two eggs, perfectly runny, and whole wheat toast.

“Enjoy your breakfast special, Sheila.”

“That’s more like it.” And with a pat to his elbow, she dunks her bread into the yolk with the other hand. She admires the way it spills, and she bites her lip, reminded of her pleasant morning. She finds she bursts at the seams with love. No one to share her thoughts with, she struggles. It would be cruel to tell Gary: _ I sucked my beloved off this morning and I’ll taste him in my throat until bedtime _ . So all she can do is grin as she sips her coffee. Cream, two sugars. Her husband makes her breakfast, some days. Pancakes, because he has that boyish knack for sweets. She knows she ought to prefer those mornings. But there is a tightness in her chest when she has to choose between them. It’s just breakfast. It’s just coffee. Other things should hurt far worse.

 

\--

 

It’s so domestic. He feels like a housewife. Well, house-husband. House-henchman. There’s no term for what he is. He’s their butler, their friend, their go-between. He’s the receptacle for all their complaining and all of their problems. He doesn’t hate it as much as he probably should; they at least return the favor. Sheila especially, sitting in her office so often listening to him ramble and rant. The Monarch offers him more...aggressive help. He echoes his bitching like a best friend ought.

Best friend. He finally feels he can say it, and he loves the sound of it. Had someone told him, years ago, when he was just a teenager struggling to hench and survive, that he would end up being best friend’s with _ The Fucking Monarch _ , he’d have died on site. 

But it’s her he can’t quite put a name to. She’s been so many things. Distant superior, trusting boss, and briefly, a sort-of-lover...He wonders if she is his best friend by extension. What he feels for them is so similar, and that frightens him. It scares him that his heart races the same when they’re near. He’s had so few friends in his life, he can’t tell if that’s just normal. It felt different with 24. Their bond was something else entirely.

He tells himself that his only recourse is to go on serving, go on fighting. Even if he never quite figures it out.

He has this phantom ponytail he keeps wanting to run his fingers through, that old nervous habit. But it’s gone. He never realized how much of a comfort it was until she cut it off. He has nothing to grab onto anymore. He feels like he’s drowning, but he can’t tell her that. She has enough on her plate.

She shapes the world these days, like she’s long shaped his.

He helps her ready herself for the day, rehashing her talking points for her meeting with Dr. Z.  _ And if he asks what we’re doing about the sewer people? I tell him they’ve not yet responded to our letters _ . 

“Gary…” He hears her voice, muffled by the walls of her walk-in closet. “Can you help me with this.. _.thing? _ ”

He walks in, seeing her, stunning in a sundress to match the burgundy curtains that decorate their shared home. She’s holding a delicate gold necklace, that famed butterfly design on the pendant.

“Is that new?” he asks. He sees her so often come and go on shopping trips, listens intently when she describes what she’s come home with. 

“The Monarch bought it for me. Had it made special. And the dress is Alexander McQueen, who isn’t actually dead, but don’t tell anyone.”

“It’s lovely…” His hands are gentle despite their size as he handles the clasp, setting the necklace on her skin. The Monarch is so thoughtful. He knows first-hand. For his last birthday he was given the  _ Blade Runner _ director’s cut special edition. His old one he’d lent to someone who never gave it back… “You look amazing, ma-- Sheila.”

“Oh, Gary, stop it…” She slips on her black pumps, slender ankles so perfectly bent. “It’s just Dr. Z. I’m not to his taste.”

“He respects you, though. I can tell.” 

He walks her to the door, carrying her sweater. Just in case it gets chilly. She always runs a little cold.

“You think so?”

“...you intimidate him. You intimidate all of them.”

He loves how she tries not to produly grin. She deserves that fear, that deference. She is the ultimate force to be reckoned with.

“It’ll go to my head, Gary.”

“I hope so.” 

She snorts and takes her sweater, draping it over her arm.

“I’ll text you both.” They have a group message going. She kisses his cheek. She does that now and then. He’ll be thinking about it all day.

 

\--

 

He wakes up late. He’s earned it, goddammit. His henchman army isn’t going to train itself. He and 21 have been up so many nights, running drills, giving cowboy speeches, inspiring them to do his bidding. And jeeze, if his wife hasn’t worn him out. There’s no one like her. There’s no one else who could rouse him too early from sleep and get away with it.

_ No one else, no one else _ .

He pads his way downstairs in his robe, rubbing sleep from his eyes, charmed by the still-present smell of coffee.

“Twenty-one!” he shouts down the hall. “Ready my Hot Pocket!”

He hears the microwave beep before he can finish his command. Ham and cheese. 

“Morning, boss.” He’s sitting upright at the table, typing away at his laptop engraved with their shared insignia. So diligent. “Dr. Mrs. The Monarch left a little while ago.”

He waves his hand in dismissal. He doesn’t have to  _ babysit  _ her. 

“She gave me a very thorough goodbye this morning, my loyal Number Two.” He grins as he sips his coffee.

“Ugh…” Gary shakes his head, eyes focusing on the screen of his laptop, burning holes in whatever important Guild email he’s writing. “You don’t _ have _ to tell me this stuff, you know.”

Malcolm shrugs. He’s not even sure why he shares those details anymore, if he’s honest. It can’t really be considered boyish bragging anymore, considering they’re fucking  _ married _ . Maybe he just wants Gary to...think about it. Wants him to know what goes on down the hallway from him and  _ wonder _ .

“If you ever got laid you could tell me what happens, ya know,” he insists, pointing his fork at him.

“As _ if!  _ You’d never let anyone over here unless they were thoroughly vetted!”

“No girlfriend of yours will go without proper questioning!” he says, stern and loud. “She could be a mole for the OSI…”

“Oh my  _ god, _ ” Gary sighs, exasperated. “I’m not even seeing anyone.”

“Well why not, huh?” He nudges him with his elbow. “Afraid my wife won’t approve?”

Gary frowns. Malcolm raises his showy eyebrows. He’s already regretting his curiosity, dreading the answer. If there _ is  _ someone…

He tells himself he’d be disappointed only because of his cause, only because of his hatred of Dr. Venture. Some _ floozy  _ hanging around might distract 21 from his mission. That’s why he’s so anxious for the answer. Only that, only _ that _ . 

“Fine. I have...some prospects.” He finally shuts the laptop and turns to look at him head-on. “Are you happy now?”

“...yes,” Malcolm says, stuffing his mouth full of eggs before he can elaborate, correct, deny. If that’s how it is, then that’s how it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their feelings for one another are all so nuanced I hope I can do it justice. Please comment!


	2. Bread and Butter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheila goes to work, but she's distracted. Gary and Malcolm eat sandwiches.

 

She sits curled against the window of the shuttle. She knows she could just hologram in, of course, but she is, thus far, the only woman on the council. All her career, she’s had to go out of her way to be the best that she can be. Better than her male counterparts, but still held to this different, impossible standard. She’s so used to the extra effort, she hardly notices the pains she goes through anymore. It’s made even worse, she knows, by being a wife. But god, if she didn’t love him so much…

It is a weakness in women to love a man. At least, that’s what everyone’s been taught. It is a weakness to need a man, no matter in what way. But she doesn’t need him for money, for support, for validation. She needs him because he completes her soul. She’s empty without him.

But there’s something else she can’t quite name, these days. She’s happy, checking texts from her beloved husband, watching the stars go by outside the window of the shuttle. But she only truly grins at their group text, at the inside jokes they all bond over. Her, her husband, and Gary. 

The two of them are probably home, lounging on the couch and plotting, tossing popcorn back and forth as if either of them will ever make the perfect shot into the other’s open mouth. She chuckles to herself, holding her phone to her chest, trying to quell her giddy thoughts for the sake of her reputation.

Red Mantle shoots her a suspicious glance from across the aisle, to which she gently sneers. Oh, the man with two heads wants to judge her. Hilarious. 

Upon her arrival, she’s greeted by Phantom Limb. His arm is out, she can tell, and she loops hers in his.

“I’m thrilled you’re here early, my dear. Entertaining Dr. Z has been...most excruciating,” he laments, leading her to their council chamber. She sees Watch and Ward, slouched over at their table as Dr. Z gives a rousing speech about the valor of villainy. She feels for them, more deeply than she can say aloud. Maybe it’s maternal instinct. Maybe it’s the sympathy she feels for underlings, given her closeness to Gary.

She ignores all the possibilities. It’s a weakness to be soft.

“Madame Councilwoman!” Ward shouts, eagerly pushing out his chair and running to greet her. “We were just discussing how eager we are to hear about the progress The Monarch and his new Number Two have made!” There’s a pleading look on his face, and Watch, too, glares at her like he’s begging to be set free.

“Oh, um…” She frees herself from Limb’s grasp and motions for the Point Five to follow her to her seat. “They’ve been busy plotting their next attack on Dr. Venture. I...hardly see them, to be honest.” Sitting down, she opens her folder full of documents, trying to move things along.

“That doesn’t bother you, ma’am?” Watch asks. “Your husband spending so much time with someone else?”

“We...have an understanding,” she says, squinting, wary of the Point Five overstepping their bounds. “Why? Does it bother you when Ward hangs out with other friends? What does it matter?”

“We’re not married, ma’am…” Ward interjects, holding up one hand, still ever-ready to defer to her authority.

“Well, not on paper,” she chides. “Mind your own and get me a cup of coffee, will you?”

 

\--

 

So often their planning turns to nothing but laughter. Bullshitting and mentioning their nemesis so sparsely, you’d think they’re hardly villains. You’d think they’re just two men, marathoning House Hunters, balking at the choices couples make. Lord know  _ their _ house is better than any McMansions those idiots are considering wasting their money on.  _ Their _ house, because it cannot possibly belong simply to _ man and wife _ . Not when Gary’s seen to the painting of the walls, the polishing of the floors. The organization of fine china and book collections.

“We should sneak into Venture’s penthouse and redo all of his sconces,” The Monarch suggests, holding up one victorious finger. 

“Oh, definitely! He’s all...new age, art deco. We should install something tacky and gothic.”

“Yeah, like, the kind that looks like if you pull on it the wall will spin around.”

“Totally. He’ll be so mad…”

They add it to one of their lists. Their arching plans are broken up into two categories:  _ utter vanquishing  _ and  _ hilarious pranks _ . Occasionally Sheila will chime in with something particularly delightful. It was her idea to call him pretending to be the IRS. 

Gary smiles fondly, spinning his pen between his thick fingers. There is a thrill to the fight, to the act of vengeance, but he can’t say he likes it more than this. The planning stage. Long days spent idle, buttressing his friend’s hate with ideas and emotional support.

“Number Two…” The Monarch says, his voice grim, tapping his fingers together. 

“Yes?” Gary puts down the notepad, eager to hear the scheme.

“Put on your jeans! We are going to the deli!” He stands from the couch, purple robe seeming to billow in some impossible breeze. Like everything he does, there is majesty to it. “We are going to treat ourselves to triple-decker sandwiches!” His evil laugh is somewhat subdued. Maybe he’s getting sick. Gary makes a note to stock up on chicken soup.

They dress, doors open, yelling down the hall to one another.

“Is it sweater-weather?” The Monarch shouts, rifling through his closet. 

“Sort of? It’s like...light sweater-weather. Like...a  _ just in case  _ sweater.”

“Got it. The black hoodie.”

Gary laces up his sneakers and pulls on a flannel shirt. He likes this weather. The start of fall when it’s still warm and you can get away with dressing however you want. He always feels more comfortable in layers, like he’s still got all that pudge to hide. Still, next to his boss he feels like a giant.

That is, until he sees the eager smile on The Monarch’s face, clearly starving for deli meat and soda. Hopefully excited to spend some time outdoors together...The Monarch claps him on the back as they head out the door, his hand staying there just a moment, like comfort, like guidance. 

It’s not a far walk into town, and they live in one of the better-smelling parts of Newark. Gary longs to hear stories of that charmed childhood, of playing in that massive yard and walking hand-in-hand between his parents to this very same deli..but he can’t ask. Especially of late, whenever anyone brings up his father, The Monarch shuts down. Gary hasn’t seen him look so dejected in a long, long time…

They walk close, elbows always rubbing, a leisurely pace. Silent, comfortable, occasionally casting a soft, friendly glance toward one another. Ever since that night, ever since Sheila accused them of co-opting Date Night to spite her Gary’s been careful to describe their outings. It...does often feel like dating. Walking slow in the nice weather, sharing drinks, arguing over who pays. They’re one more fake dance lesson away from making shit weird all over again…

As they round the corner to the busier street where the deli is, their phones go off. The Monarch’s on vibrate, Gary’s making the alarming stealth noise from  _ Metal Gear. _

It’s a photo from Sheila, a selfie, posed behind Phantom Limb, Watch and Ward snickering on the sidelines at the note they’ve taped to his back. It’s that childish “kick me” prank, but still it makes them full of glee. Fuck that guy.

“God, I cannot stand that he’s just up there, shoving his invisible dick around!” The Monarch tightens his grip around his phone, and Gary places a hand over his to calm him.

“He has less power than he ever did,” he assures him.

“How!? He’s a Council member now…”

“Yeah. Meaning he has to get four point five other people to agree with him before he gets anything done. Sh--  _ your wife _ being one of them.”

The Monarch nods, turning back toward their destination. Everyone seems to be on their lunch hour. He walks a few feet and then stops. So abruptly you’d think he’d seen his nemesis across the street.

“Boss?”

“...do you still love her?” He won’t turn around to look at him, and Gary’s thankful. He can hide the ghostly look on his face at the sudden question. 

“I, uh...it’s...different, now.” He hasn’t sounded this timid in years. “Do we have to talk about this, dude? I just...wanted a sandwich…”

__

 

They eat in silence, passing their large soda cup back and forth. All Malcolm can hear is his own eager chewing. He’s thankful that it drowns out his nervous heartbeat. He’s been so fucking stupid...going after Gary like an interrogation. He might as well have held a knife to the guy’s neck, the way he sounded. He’d meant to be gentle, he’d meant to sound as if he was  _ just checking _ …

In a way it would hurt if he _ didn’t  _ harbor those same feelings for her anymore. She’s a goddess among women. 

Tired of the tension, he takes a potato chip from the bag that lays between them and tosses it lazily at Gary’s face. He flinches, blinking blankly at him.

“...dude.” Gary picks up another chip and throws it right back, but this time The Monarch attempts to catch it in his mouth. When he fails they laugh. So easily do they fall back into their right places. They have a way of making it so that nothing else around them seems to exist. Not even her…

But he wants them to exist together. And not as they already do. They’re like a family with no children. Three parents raising nothing but a villainous empire.

“...she cut your hair.”

“Ah, yeah...I gotta get it evened out but she did a pretty good job.”

“I was so tired of that dumb ponytail.”

“How can you say that? Do you look in the mirror like, ever? Eyebrows!” Gary points across the table.

“These are part of my Monarch charm! Without them I’m nothing!” He runs his skinny fingers along them, making sure they’re perfectly curled.

“You really think your charm comes from your fucking...eyebrows?” Gary looks at him deadpan, almost looking fed up. “Sheila and I-- we…” He swallows his bite. “We’ve been trying to name it. We think it comes from your confidence and dedication. And how much of a dick you are.”

Malcolm snorts. He guesses that’s true.

The walk home is brief, swift, a stronger wind coming off the river and onto the land making them determined to get home and back into their sweatpants. At the door Gary fumbles with the keys, and Malcolm, inpatient and chilly in his skinny bones, huddles close to his friend’s back, hands pawing impatiently at the fabric of his flannel shirt.

“Come onnn…” he whines, watching desperately over Gary’s shoulder.

“Y-you’re not helping--”

When finally the door gives to their pushing, they stumble inside.

“What do you mean ‘not helping?’” Malcolm asks, rubbing his hands together and making his way toward the thermostat.

“Distracting me! We were practically  _ snuggling  _ back there!”

“W-were not! You’re just a beacon of heat! And why is that so distracting anyway?”

“Because, I-- I dunno…”

They stand facing one another, arms folded across their chests, a standoff. 

“...out with it,” Malcolm says, ever skilled at pushing the responsibility off on someone else.

“...because I always figured _ I  _ would be the big spoon, and now I’m not so sure!”

“You-- I’m in charge around here! I’m obviously the bigger spoon! The biggest spoon!”

They step closer, adamant. 

“Wait--” Malcolm says, squinting. “You’ve imagined us snuggling?”

“W-well not just us…”

“What!?”

“It-- last winter we were all in front of the fire drinking hot chocolate and I just thought ‘hey, wouldn’t it be nice if we just...I dunno, cuddled?’ but I thought it would be too weird--”

“It  _ is  _ weird.”

“I know! That’s why I never said anything.”

The argument breaks down, and they drift toward the living room to continue their marathon. They soften and sigh, sitting beside one another.

“You couldn’t  _ handle  _ it. My spooning. I’m an expert!”

“ _ Prove _ it.” 

They stare at one another a moment, stubborn and coy. 

“Fine.”

They lay down, Malcolm’s back pressed up against the couch cushions, skinny arms around Gary’s shoulders. 

“I’ll show  _ you _ …” Even in his softest moments, he sounds like a villain. Even when he’s warm and fuzzy inside, he just can’t turn it off.

They drift to sleep, bellies full of a heavy lunch, waking only when they hear the creaking of the door and the sound of shoes clicking against the wood. The sighing of a woman tired from a hard day’s work.

“Uhhh...what the fuck?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me writing the snuggle argument: this is the stupidest shit i've ever done
> 
> (continues to write it with a smile on my face)


End file.
